Her Broken Lover
by Inspire-Smiles
Summary: "Now I've lost who I am, and I can't understand, why my heart is so broken, rejecting your love." Spoilers for 3x09, 3x10. Sam/Andy one-shot.


**A/N This hit me in the most random of times. It's probably one of the most raw pieces I've written. Spoilers for 3x09, 3x10. I hope you enjoy. **

He couldn't remember how long he had been driving. The sky seemed no darker, the rain still pouring, his hands clutched the steering wheel like a lifeline. The traffic lights had become coloured blurs and all he could see through his windshield was a dying Jerry. Her broken brown eyes reflected in his rear-view. A tearful Traci and Leo in his left and right mirrors. His wheels left the pavement as he hydroplaned, his damn truck becoming just another part of his life h couldn't control. Mirror checks only resulted in another view of four pairs of lost, sad, eyes. He jerked the wheel sharply, as if trying to clear his blind spots of the pain he felt and the pain he caused. The car spun once, the roads thankfully empty and the car came to a stop along the shoulder. He hit the steering wheel, the satisfying sting of his hand driving him to lash out in anger again, hitting the wheel repeatedly with his palms before his hands came to rest on that same wheel. His head hung down as the tears, if only because of gravity, left his eyes.

He just let his tears fall. Just like he had let hers.

Water continued to pour down, but she couldn't tell from where as the rain from the clouds and the rain from her eyes began to mix; fresh water meeting salt. Pure versus impure. It could've been acid rain for all she cared, burning a hole through her jacket and yet the gaping hole in her chest hadn't been caused by corrosion. I had been surgically removed by a man with unreadable, sterile eyes, and words as sharp as a scalpel. He had picked up the pieces of her heart weeks ago, opened them, then sewn the broken muscle together again. Only to rip out her stitches one by one. No anaesthesia. Like an addict forced into withdrawal without methadone, she ached to her very core. Her hands shook as she reached for the handle of the door. He was her heroin, a hallucinogen to dull her senses and cloud her judgement. To make her doubt reality and believe in a fantasy. A fallacy. And like an addict, she pretended. She was on step zero because admitting she had a problem would wreak havoc on her already twitchy emotions. One look at her best friend reminded her that her fix would have to wait – at least until she could revel in her guilt and shame that she was crying not only for a dead fiancé but also his best man.

He's not sure how he made it home. His sluggish footsteps echoed in his rarely-empty house. He reached for his whiskey but stopped when he saw her lip glossed print tattooed on the rim of a mug left in his sink. His stomach rolled with overwhelming nausea. He staggers into his bedroom in a grief, but not alcohol induced haze and walked to the dresser, studiously avoiding the mirror, unsure of what he might see. Traci, Andy, Leo, Jerry. Maybe worse – himself. Instead, he rolled his fingers over the words that had seemed so hopeful yet now felt like a tragically inadequate testament to the legacy Jerry had left. _To the good times_. He looked up and his stomach churned again. There laid a hero, a brilliant detective, loving fiancé, doting father figure, annoying yet amazing friend, and here stood the broken remains of a man entrusted with the task of getting a man to an altar he was never destined to see.

She sat on the edge of the bed, mindlessly stroking Traci's dark hair as her friend lay in a purple dress shirt too large to be her own. She felt her already shattered heart splinter as she looked down at the finally sleeping woman clutching her wedding dress as she slept in Jerry's shirt. She stepped out into the rain once again and she doubted whether the droplets she had once considered so cleansing could ever wash away the memory of the slam of his truck door. Every crack of lighting lit a fiery rage in the pit of her stomach. His words echoed like the loud rumble of thunder. A fire lit by her warm heart meeting his cool demeanour now sparked by her hot tears and his cold eyes. Hot and cold – maybe they were just too different. Her overcharged mind churned out thoughts that soaked into her skin and turned her blood to ice. If it had been her on that floor, bleeding… Maybe it should've been. Traci would've been with her soulmate. Perhaps Gail would have been Maid of Honour. And him? She knew he still loved her. She knew from the way he pursed his lips, from the laugh lines that now crinkled in sadness. An ugly selfish voice whispered in the back of her mind and she couldn't help but think that Traci was a little bit lucky. Although Jerry had died, Traci would always know how much he loved her. _Til the day I die_ had come so much sooner than expected. But Traci could read the letters, see her ring and along with that blinding pain came the knowledge that if he had had his way, he would be her husband, father of her children. Her always lover. Traci would survive; her always lover left because he had to. She's not sure she'll survive; her almost lover left because he could.

He wrenched open her door. She was on the couch, in his sweater. Eyes red and puffy, hair curling slightly from the rain. A daisy lay loosely in her hand; a flower she had thrust at him on their first real date as she rambled about being slightly unconventional. _"Why do girls never get guys flowers? You deserve it as much as I do."_ He called her name, and watched her stir. Bleary eyes locked with his. They were damaged. Wounded. Drenched in a downpour of grief and heartache that evaporated into a dark cloud, only to condense over their heads.

"I can't be a cop and be with you. But I can't be a man and be without you."

Not her always lover. Not even her almost lover. But maybe her broken lover.


End file.
